


Abstract Expressionism

by aliatori



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Canada is a place that exists, Friends to Lovers, Getting Back Together, Love Confessions, M/M, Reunited and It Feels So Good, artist!Nyx, life model!Cor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-03
Updated: 2019-09-03
Packaged: 2020-10-06 16:42:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,812
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20510207
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aliatori/pseuds/aliatori
Summary: “Tell me you’re not about to ask me to come model for one of your classes,” Cor says, deadpan.“I definitely was…” Nyx trails off, grinning the fool at being called so quickly on his bluff.“Was?”“Was going to ask you exactly that, yeah."Art professor Nyx Ulric and life model Cor Leonis are great at falling into each other's orbits—they're just not great at staying there.





	Abstract Expressionism

**Author's Note:**

  * For [roadsoftrial](https://archiveofourown.org/users/roadsoftrial/gifts).

> A big thank you to roadsoftrial for the language assistance, a wonderful prompt, and her friendship.
> 
> Unbeta'd, so please forgive my transgressions.

When Cor huffs out a parchment-over-gravel laugh right into Nyx’s ear—well, into his headphones, which are technically in his ears—Nyx resolves to call and ask him for favors more often.

“What sort of favor?” Cor asks, the faint domestic sounds of running sinks and clinking dishes in the background.

Nyx fiddles with the tail end of his braid, contemplates chewing on it, decides the nervous habit is too undignified even if Cor isn’t here to see it, and places the offending hand flat on the black marble counter top in front of him. “The paid, career relevant sort of favor.”

“Tell me you’re not about to ask me to come model for one of your classes,” Cor says, deadpan.

“I definitely was…” Nyx trails off, grinning the fool at being called so quickly on his bluff.

“Was?”

“Was going to ask you exactly that, yeah. The model I had booked is out of town on a family emergency, and there is a shocking shortage of people willing to sit nude in front of budding artists this week.”

Cor chuckles, the bass of it traveling from the synthetic electricity of Nyx’s headphones to the organic electricity of his nerves, lighting up a hundred old, intimate memories in a few short breaths. There’s a pause before he responds with a single word, “When?”

“Uh…” Nyx begins, tapping the screen of his phone until he gets to his calendar. “It’s a night class. Friday at six.”

“That explains the shortage.”

“Yup,” Nyx agrees cheerfully, as though he’s not asking one of the art community’s most renowned life models to give up his Friday night for a paltry university fee.

After the achingly familiar sound of a door closing, the tiny squeak in the hinge betraying it as Cor’s bedroom door, he speaks again. “Are they more… controlled than the last batch?” Cor asks, a wary edge to his voice. “It’s hard to get through gesture poses when someone faints in the front row.”

It’s Nyx’s turn to laugh, deep and rich and from the belly. “What, you didn’t enjoy the live rendition of _Abandonment_?”

“That would require enjoying _anything_ Tissot in the first place.”

“On behalf of French artists everywhere, I am deeply offended.”

“French-Canadian doesn’t count.”

Nyx considers for a moment, chewing on his bottom lip. There’s one weapon in his arsenal that’s almost guaranteed to work, but it’s practically a below the belt tactic. No honor in the victory.

It takes him an instant to decide he’s entirely unconcerned about his theoretical honor. He just wants the chance to see Cor for the first time in months, share space with his sometimes-colleague, sometimes-friend, and former lover… even if that same space will be occupied by eight to twelve young, impressionable students.

“_Si je dis que ça compte, ça compte_,” Nyx says, the flippancy of his tone carefully calculated for maximum effect.

The tiny strangled noise Cor makes on the other end of the line might not have been audible were it not for the headphones. One harsh, quick exhalation later, Cor says, “You owe me dinner after. PrettyUgly.”

“Deal,” Nyx agrees, grinning and pumping his fist in celebration.

* * *

Nyx manages to condense a possible 48 hours of nerves into one hour of frantic wardrobe planning, haphazardly tossing items out of his walk-in closet once he decides against them. In the end, he’s still a professor and a semi-public figure, so he settles on a black button up with the sleeves rolled back, matching slacks, and a shimmering, amethyst vest.

It’s a lot of work for an ensemble he might throw a smock over anyway, but hey, never hurts to be prepared.

His nerves vanish as soon as he crosses the threshold from city street to university studio. From there, the motions are familiar: set up the lighting, retrieve the easels, get the one comfortable padded chair and space heater for Cor, get the way less comfortable stools for his students if they’re early enough to snag one, and make sure the blinds are closed. Nyx decides it’s a little cold in the room, and he’s the one who plans on keeping all his clothes on for the time being, so he adjusts the thermostat up a couple degrees Celsius in preparation.

In serendipitous synchronization with his thoughts, there’s a soft knock on the door as Nyx finishes his normal routine. He opens it and finds Cor waiting.

He’s dressed casually in dark washed jeans, a grey sweater, and a pair of rich brown wingtips. Nyx tries not to lend too much significance to the white-gold watch around one of Cor’s wrists, a watch Nyx gave him a couple Christmases back. The leather weekender bag Cor has over one shoulder completes the look, though it appears a little more full than usual.

“Hey. Thanks for coming,” Nyx says with a smile. He knows well enough not to go in for the hug, not here in public and not with work to be done, but the knowledge doesn’t abate the urge to do so.

Cor surprises him by returning the smile, though for Cor a smile is barely more than a twitch of his lips. “You’re fortunate I wasn’t already booked. Still leaving things to the last minute, I see.”

“And it worked out, didn’t it?” Nyx counters.

“Someday your blind faith will bite you in the ass,” Cor deadpans.

“Think it already has a time or two, and I’ve got the scars to prove it. Still works out more often than not,” Nyx says with a wink.

“Is there a particular area of focus for tonight’s session, or am I free to choose my own poses?”

“I was thinking the usual—cover some warm ups, some mid-range poses, and an hour long study at the end.”

“I’m hardly the usual,” Cor says, tilting his chin up by a degree even though he has half a foot of height on Nyx.

“Don’t I know it,” Nyx agrees easily. “If you were, I’d be handing you a specific outline, including poses. But I trust you.” The last four words come out soft, a chink in the armor Nyx hadn’t planned on letting show.

Cor meets his eyes, and the familiar spark ignites in his chest, the first stroke of a painting in a Technicolor palette of desire. God, it’s easy to forget how deep his want can go when Cor isn’t standing right beside him. And, if Nyx isn’t mistaken—and he doesn’t believe he is—there’s an intrigued glint to Cor’s regard, a fragment of possibility, the promise of creation in the touch of calloused fingers to shapeless clay.

Breaking the eye contact, Nyx passes his hand across the shaved side of his head before gesturing to the other door in the studio. “I’ve already swept the studio next door so you can get changed.” Cor pins him with a searching steel blue stare before nodding his assent. He exits to the makeshift change room, posture impeccable, stride long, and Nyx permits himself to gaze after Cor for a handful of longing seconds before focusing on the task at hand.

As he takes up his usual post by the door, sitting cross-legged on his own stool, Nyx greets his students one by one as they shuffle into the classroom, tossing out jokes and genuine excitement in equal measure. The room fills with a blend of quiet conversation, scraping wood, and rustling paper. A young woman brings up a sketch from last week’s class and asks Nyx for a few pointers on the foreshortening, which he happily provides, offering gentle corrections in measured strokes of charcoal.

The door to the adjacent studio opens and out comes Cor. Were this the first time Cor had modeled in front of Nyx—which was many fond years ago—he’d be more distracted by the lean, muscular angles of him, barely concealed in a thin black robe. He exudes confidence in droves, drawing every eye in the room to him, including Nyx’s. Cor made his mark as a life model with a combination of creative poses and impressive stamina to hold them, and there are hints of that control as he takes up position in between the studio lights.

There’s a hum of recognition from several of Nyx’s students. Most people who have an interest in life drawing have heard of Cor, his name a staple within the community, but far fewer have gotten to see the actual man himself in front of them.

“Class, Cor. Cor, class,” Nyx says, pointing to each side of the room as appropriate. “Since we have a world renowned life model in the room, I feel like it’s a timely reminder about the strict ‘no cell phones or photography’ policy. _C'est compris_?” A general murmur of assent follows his question—they don’t need to understand French to know the question Nyx asks. “Good. It’s halfway through the semester, so you know the drill by now. Breaks at the usual time, and I’ll make the rounds for critique and questions.”

Clearly, his students have tuned him out, their focus uniformly on Cor, who has removed his robe and is folding it into neat quarters. Normally, he’d be annoyed, but this time he can’t blame them. His thoughts split into two distinct halves; one half admires Cor’s talent and professional demeanor, while the other half basks in far more personal memories, ones where he captured the essence of the man in front of him with lips and tongue and hands instead of charcoal and paint. There’s an itch in his hands, a longing to preserve a slice of this moment for himself, but Nyx lets it pass him by and slips into the role of professor.

After turning on the compact Bluetooth speaker and putting on a play list of soothing waterscapes—one Nyx specifically chose because Cor would be modeling—Nyx stands off to the side of the room to get the best vantage point of both Cor and his students.

Cor opens up with a standing pose, right hand loosely gripping his left shoulder, left hand curled around his ribs on the opposite side, eyes focused on some unknown point in the back of the studio. He’s flexing, so the muscles all the way from bicep to brachialis have extra definition. The jagged, angry scar from sternum to hip threatens to draw Nyx into the non-professional half of his thoughts—how could it not, when he outlined that scar with soft kisses more times than he remembers? Since these are quick gesture poses for warm ups, Nyx circles the back of the studio with controlled steps, glancing at the progress on the pads of paper before him without offering much correction.

For the next pose, Cor lowers his body into a crouch, resting his weight on the balls of his feet, his movement fluid and graceful. He clasps his hands in front of him, forming a lose triangle of negative space between his fingers, and Nyx finds his attention drawn to Cor’s hands. Though he’s never told Nyx exactly _what_ art he creates, besides a vague reference to a sculpture hobby, he definitely has the weathered hands of an artist. Clubbed thumbs (ones that often brushed against Nyx’s lower lip, neck, ears as Cor kissed him), meticulously trimmed nails (ones long enough to sketch lines of red down the skin of Nyx’s back), slightly swollen knuckles (ones Nyx would often worry at with his fingertips). He supposes it’s only natural for his attention to gravitate towards Cor’s hands since they spent so long serving as twin anchors for his heart.

“Professor Ulric?” A sotto voce whisper brings him back to the present.

Right. Class.

The furious motion of charcoal and pencil against paper serves to ground Nyx in the present. Another pose change from Cor—contrapposto this time, standing like Michaelangelo’s _David_ in the middle of the room—forces a complete change in the action and movement from the previous pose. Nyx speaks with the young woman who asked for his help then decides to be proactive with his advice.

After three more poses, Cor gets his attention, and in the wordless way born of long familiarity they share, Nyx calls time.

“Two minutes, then we start tonight’s detailed studies,” Nyx says.

He spends all one hundred and twenty seconds not looking at Cor. If it were any longer of a break, he’d put his robe back on, but since it’s a quick transition to one of the longer studies, Cor lounges comfortably on the provided chair. Their eyes meet again, the contact prolonged, and Nyx finally starts to wonder if Cor maybe had his own motives for coming here tonight. He wonders this _without_ letting his eyes drop to Cor’s incredibly handsome and extremely nude body—his professionalism would be blown out the proverbial water if he ogles his own model in front of young, impressionable minds.

As soon as two minutes passes, Nyx signals the class to start the next exercise.

For the first thirty minute pose, Cor surprises him by choosing to hold a yoga pose. Nyx knows better than most what Cor is capable of, but he hadn’t expected him to give it his all tonight.

He should have known better.

Once his robe is off, Cor sinks to the ground in a continuous motion, his defined muscles rippling in a single wave as he does so. Facing away from the class, he sits on the heels tucked beneath his butt, feet in straight parallel lines next to one another. Cor reaches his left arm behind him, adjusting it with his right so that the side of his left hand rests between his shoulder blades; the right arm mirrors this position in short order, the palms and fingertips of both hands pressed together, wrists against his spine. From Nyx’s vantage point off to the side, he sees Cor roll his shoulders back, sharpening his naked scapula like axe blades beneath his skin, and lift his chest upwards. 

And then he waits, still as stone.

The class murmurs in quiet disbelief, which prompts Nyx to give a single snap of his fingers. “You’ve only got 30 minutes,” he says in a low voice, circling his pointer finger in their general direction. “And I’m grading this next week, so…”

His students attack the pads of paper on their easels with reckless abandon after Nyx’s admonishment. From there, Nyx falls into the rhythm of teaching, his personal feelings finally eclipsed by Cor’s sheer talent. Like fine wine, Cor’s services as a life model only grow more in demand as the years go by, and watching him hold a difficult yoga pose with zero sign of strain… it never gets old. He’s stoic and unassuming in his day to day life, but here, laid bare to the tiny universe within the studio, each meticulous, sinewy line of his body reminds Nyx how much he cares for both man and artist, breathes life into his admiration anew. 

For the last hour of class and the final section of the evening, Cor chooses a recumbent pose, arranging the provided sheets and cushion to his satisfaction before assuming his chosen pose. With his arms extended overhead, one knee drawn up, and body twisted towards the class, it reminds Nyx of Fuseli’s Nightmare, evoking a subtle sense of fleeing from an unseen assailant. More relevant to the part of Nyx’s lizard brain he can’t shut up, it radiates vulnerability, exposure… and desire. Cor uses his body to simultaneously invite capture and retreat, and Nyx wishes he could speed up time to make this class end sooner.

Class does end. Eventually.

After Nyx calls time, Cor slowly stands, shrugs into his robe like he has all the time in the world, and offers the class a short bow once covered. He disappears into the side room to change, leaving Nyx with his students.

“How do you know Cor?” a young man named Remy blurts no sooner than the door is closed.

“I know you all have crap memories, but allow me to graciously remind you that I am something of a commodity outside of the classroom as well. I have connections,” Nyx says with a grin and a wiggle of his eyebrows. He’s an informal professor, but there’s no way in the entire world he’s disclosing the nature of their relationship to his students.

“My friend is in her master’s program and has been _dying_ for a session with Cor. I can’t wait to tell her,” a different girl says.

“Yeah, yeah, you’re all very fortunate. Now go the hell home,” Nyx says over the rising din of conversations. Upon dismissal, the students pack up their materials and rush the door with surprising efficacy. “Oh, and bring back your last two drawings from tonight for critique next week!” he calls after their retreating forms.

Once the students are gone, Nyx falls into the routine of cleanup and finishes faster than usual. He throws his smock onto one of the hooks along the back wall, picks up his backpack and slings it over a shoulder, and leans against the wall, casually playing on his phone as he waits for Cor to emerge. 

The transformation from uninhibited art model to reserved (yet still unbearably attractive) 40-something man always amazes Nyx. Cor crosses the room to Nyx, the strap of his weekender bag cutting across his body. He expects Cor to stop an arm’s length away, maintaining the careful bubble of personal space Cor implicitly demands with his body language, but he bypasses Nyx’s expectations altogether, closing the gap between them with barely a whisper of space separating them. Cor’s hand finds the back of Nyx’s neck, his eyes paradoxically glacial and searing in the split second they make eye contact.

Then Cor kisses him. Hard.

Nyx, who has been silently praying for an outcome like this all night, returns the kiss, relishing the feel of Cor’s mouth against his, a world of both past memory and current sensation in the firm curve of his lips. He kisses the same way he works, with total intensity, giving a harsh exhale through his nose as Nyx licks into his mouth. Nyx’s hands find Cor’s hips and pull him closer, eradicating the mere suggestion of space between them, and they kiss until they’re breathless three times over.

“I see a job well done still makes you horny,” Nyx murmurs against Cor’s jaw, kissing the cleanly shaved line of it afterward.

“And I see you’re still completely full of yourself,” Cor says without malice.

“Says the man who routinely commands entire rooms with his naked body on a whim.” Nyx spins Cor around so his back is against the wall, pinning him there, the defiant tilt to Cor’s chin going right to the semi straining against his dress slacks.

“I meant what I said about dinner,” Cor says. His body undermines the words, hips lifting to meet Nyx’s in a slow roll, one hand still braced on the back of Nyx’s neck.

“There’s food at my apartment.”

“There’s _take out_ at your apartment, and I’d like a real meal.”

“So you’re saying coming to my apartment _is_ an option.”

“I certainly didn’t pack an overnight bag for my health,” Cor says flatly.

Nyx’s heart flutters in his chest, a caged butterfly beating against his ribs. “There are easier ways to say you missed me than volunteering your valuable time to model for my class last minute. Like calling. Or texting,” Nyx says lightly, digging his thumbs into the jut of Cor’s pelvis.

“I’ve been busy.”

“What changed?”

“I’m no longer busy.”

Nyx rolls his eyes. “Alright, fine, fine, have it your way,” he says, stepping back from Cor and taking a deep breath, one that goes straight to his diaphragm and stays there for a count of ten. This dance with Cor around sentiment is one they’ve danced a hundred thousand times before, a waltz that circles them around the heart of their on again, off again relationship without ever breaching the center.

He learned long ago not to chase.

“Dinner?” 

“I take it you still don’t drive?” Cor asks in a non sequitur, eyes fixed on the ceiling.

“I was lucky to survive all the _tabarnak de chauffards_ in Montréal. I’m not about to repeat it here in Toronto,” Nyx says.

“Then I will.”

* * *

PrettyUgly is a sleek cocktail bar on the west side of town, the grid-like streets and close quarters bustling with people on the cool autumn of Friday night. Cor drives them over with the same collected calm that he channels as he models, navigating one way streets and construction without showing an ounce of frustration.

Nyx shows the frustration for him, yelling “_Esti de malade_!” as a white SUV cuts them off and nearly removes Cor’s front end in the process.

“I see why you don’t drive,” Cor comments dryly, half a smile softening the blow.

Nyx shrugs and offers a sheepish grin. “I’m passionate.”

“I’m aware,” Cor says.

The two words are low, raspy, and conjure a wave of goosebumps across Nyx’s skin. He wonders, not for the first time, if he’ll survive dinner long enough to go back to his apartment. Cor the art model knows precisely the effect he has on people—he built a career on that knowledge, leveraging his body language and presence into a commodity people pay thousands to witness and replicate in various mixed media. Cor, Nyx’s friend and sometimes lover, seems to be more careless with his charisma, changing the perspective from linear to atmospheric with a single phrase.

They park and arrive at PrettyUgly without further incident, traffic or seduction or otherwise. Nyx had the foresight to book reservations right after Cor mentioned wanting dinner as payment. Once they’re inside the svelte industrial space, low lit with wide metal pipes at the tops of dark wood walls, the hostess leads them straight past the well stocked bar—some of the wine and liquor bottles are kept suspended in a wire cage over the bar, which Nyx enjoys the aesthetic of. The hostess then settles them in a two-seater booth tucked away in the corner and thanks them.

“I’ll take your jacket,” Nyx says, placing his hands gently on Cor’s shoulders in a silent request for permission.

“Such a gentleman,” Cor says with a snort.

“I try.” Once it’s clear Cor doesn’t actually mind, Nyx slides one arm out of Cor’s teal blouson, the velveteen fabric soft against Nyx’s fingers. He frees Cor’s other arm from its sleeve and carefully hangs the jacket on the hook provided for just that purpose. Nyx shrugs out of his own leather bomber jacket and stashes it next to Cor’s, then slides into the booth opposite Cor.

“That jacket’s new. Not _my_ style, but I like it,” Nyx observes.

“Not all of us can fill our wardrobe with leather and get away with it,” Cor says.

“Hey, I missed my punk phase in my teens, so my 30s are as good a time as any. Plus,” Nyx says, biting his lower lip and leveling his best suggestive gaze at Cor, “I remember you liking the leather.”

“You wear it well,” Cor says, forearms resting against the edge of the table and hands clasped in front of him.

“So forward, and we haven’t had a single drink yet. I didn’t think you needed the publicity from a public scandal.”

“I think one of us is far more prone to scandal than the other,” Cor counters.

Their server comes around, a petite woman with a wild shock of red hair and sharp smile, and asks for their orders.

“I’ll have a Compass, he’ll have the Nomaro Spritz, and we’ll get the…” Nyx pauses to glance at the narrow food menu, “lemongrass tofu and pork belly noodles, please.” Though it’s Friday night, the bar is more of a relaxing place than a party place, so he doesn’t have to yell to be heard.

“You got it,” the server says with another knife flourish of a smile, then disappears.

Cor studies Nyx with the same careful attention he gives pieces displayed on the walls of famous galleries. There’s no mistaking him for anything but an artist in that moment, not with a gaze that peels Nyx apart layer by layer, dissecting the composition of him in one sweeping glance.

“You remembered,” Cor says simply, the words barely above the water of ambient conversation.

“Of course I remembered—I have fantastic attention to detail. You’re not the only artist at this table. Seriously, I think I need to get a t-shirt made or something. ‘Nyx Ulric, Artist’ on the front with all my paintings listed on the back,” Nyx says with a grin. “Also, you love this place, and while I appreciate your consistency, I know you have your favourites.”

“Fair enough.” If Cor has an opinion about being read, he’s as inscrutable as usual.

The server re-appears with drinks in tow faster than Nyx would expect for a Friday night, then vanishes just as quickly. This bar is one of Nyx’s favourite places in Toronto—not just because he and Cor had their first date here. The drinks are expensive but worth it, a fact Nyx re-affirms as he eyes his Compass, a layered pastel green concoction with a float of vermouth, the glass decorated by a sprig of mint and wedge of lime as garnish.

“Cheers,” he says to Cor with a dip of his head, lifting his tumbler from the table.

Cor gives a subdued smile and raises his glass, his mocktail arranged as beautifully as Nyx’s full potency beverage, shimmering topaz in the low light. They clink the rims together and take a sip in unison, and for the first time since Cor walked into his studio, Nyx feels the reality of the situation sink in.

Cor is here. After months. Right across from him. Like no time has passed at all.

“You said you’ve been busy. What have you been up to?” Nyx asks innocently, opening the door to a conversation he’s insatiably curious to have.

“Traveling for work, mostly. I booked my international engagements over the span of four months, so I’ve been everywhere from London to Paris to San Francisco to Berlin,” Cor says, one gorgeous, distracting hand curled around his drink, the other tapping a steady rhythm against the wood of the booth.

Nyx considers a jab at the French, decides some fruits hang too low even for him, and offers Cor a commiserating smile. “You must be tired.”

“Jet lagged, certainly. I got back to Toronto on Tuesday.”

Nyx’s eyes widen in surprise. After a rapid calculation, his brow furrows. “_This_ Tuesday?”

“That’s what I said, yes.”

_And you answered my call and did me a huge favor despite being back home for less than a day._ Those are the words Nyx thinks, but he worries saying them aloud will push his luck too far, bleach out the vivid hue of the moment like sunlight on pigment with no permanence, so he opts for sarcasm. “Ever the workaholic,” he says.

“I enjoy my job.”

“I know you do.” Sensing the conversation steering too close to an old battleground Nyx doesn’t want to tread across tonight, he changes the subject. “You said you were in Berlin? I thought I read about a new Immortal piece there.”

Cor lifts his shoulder in an elegant shrug. “I’m too focused on my own work to keep tabs on other artists.”

“Especially ‘street artists whose work equates to little more than vandalism’?,” Nyx asks, making air quotes around the words.

Okay, so maybe he’s not avoiding all old battlefields tonight. There’s too much Sagittarius in him to resist a good debate.

“Did I say that?” Cor deadpans with a raised eyebrow, meeting Nyx’s eyes and taking a sip of his drink without breaking eye contact.

“You did. More than once. I haven’t figured out what your problem with him is, though. I figured you’d appreciate the political thing he has going on, what with the whole ‘veteran turned art model, activist, and yoga enthusiast’ gig you have.”

“I’m a man of many talents.”

“See, how is it when _you_ say that, you manage to make it sound humble, and when I say it, I’m an arrogant asshole.”

“Probably because you are an arrogant asshole,” Cor says wryly.

Nyx nearly does a spit-take at the matter-of-fact statement. As it stands, he barks out a laugh after he manages to swallow. “And yet you’re here.”

“I didn’t say I disliked that quality. Or you.”

The brilliant, bright pleasure suffusing Nyx shouldn’t be possible from such a simple statement, and yet it feels like the sun reappearing after an eclipse. “Tell me more about how much you like me, please,” Nyx says with an over-the-top bat of his eyelashes, a fist curled under his chin.

“Mmm, no, I think I have to cut you off there.” A hint of a teasing lilt creeps into Cor’s normal, even tone.

Nyx decides to change tactics. “So you don’t keep up with ‘other artists’. Do I count as other artists? Because I had a pretty successful exhibit in the Faria gallery while you were gone. You might have heard about it.”

“I might have,” Cor agrees.

They launch into a delightful conversation from there, speaking not only about Nyx’s art but about Cor’s travels in this most recent work tour. Cor, for all his blunt speech and dry wit, is a far better conversationalist than most people would expect. Their food and a second round of drinks comes and goes in what could be a second or a century; Nyx loses his sense of time as he enjoys the company of his friend.

(_Of the man he loves_, a voice whispers underneath the banter and flirtation, a voice immediately submerged in denial before it can make a more permanent impression.)

The bill comes, Nyx pays, and their eyes meet.

“That invitation to go back to yours still on the table?”

“Absolutely,” Nyx replies instantly, resolutely, as though even the possibility of a negative answer doesn’t exist in all the universe.

* * *

An overwhelming sense of déjà vu floods Nyx as he opens the door to his apartment, Cor standing beside him. For two years, this was habitual, second nature, an event so mundane he never thought twice about it.

Until it didn’t happen anymore.

“Home sweet home,” Nyx says, bowing with a flourish and extending a hand to guide Cor in.

Cor hesitates for half a second, as though crossing the threshold means discarding reservations he’s never disclosed. He must decide it’s worth it, because he steps in, dropping his bag to the left of the door where Nyx’s shoes and briefcase rest.

“You’ve changed the decor,” Cor remarks, piercing gaze devouring Nyx’s modest apartment.

“Only a little. Don’t worry, there’s still enough mess for it to be my place.”

“I wasn’t talking about the mess.”

A tense note in Cor’s voice draws Nyx’s attention. Following his line of sight, Nyx sees what Cor refers to. “Ah, yeah, uh… couldn’t bring myself to sell it.” Nyx isn’t used to mortification, but his face burns with a steady, sudden supply of embarrassment.

On the far wall, the one facing away from the sun, a painting with a sleek, modern frame hangs. The frame holds a painting of Cor, one Cor spent many hours modeling for (and many more hours in Nyx’s bed after modeling sessions). It’s a portrait of sorts, a study of Cor’s body in _chiaroscuro_, his profile bathed in light while other parts of him are draped in liquid shadow, an effect aided along by clever use of black sheets during sittings. A painting of one of the art world’s most famous life models by a not-insignificant artist such as himself could have probably paid the mortgage on this condo.

But some things can’t be bought and sold, Nyx’s heart chief among them, and there’s too much of his heart in this painting to barter it away… not to mention too much of Cor.

“If it bothers you, I can take it down,” Nyx offers, rubbing his hand along the back of his neck and willing his blush to subside.

“It doesn’t bother me,” Cor says, low and heated.

Nyx can’t help it—he reaches up, one hand cradling Cor’s shoulder, a silent plea for reassurance. “You sure?”

In reply, Cor descends upon him, all lips and hands and ragged breath. A muffled noise of surprise escapes Nyx before he leans in to the whirlwind of touch, a pleased hum building in the back of his throat as Cor’s strong hands find their way beneath his dress shirt. A button pops and flies off in a random direction, and the reminder of how strong Cor is beneath his reserved outward demeanor sparks a wildfire.

“Jesus Christ, Mary, Mother of Joseph,” Nyx whispers in a litany to the ceiling, eyes rolling back in his head as Cor sucks a mark onto the sensitive skin of his mouth.

Cor huffs out a laugh. “That’s a lot of names that aren’t mine.”

“Oh, so that’s the game you want to play tonight?” Nyx purrs the question into Cor’s conveniently situated ear. As an afterthought, he grazes his teeth against Cor’s earlobe. “Fine. I missed you, Cor.”

Cor shudders in Nyx’s arms, a panted breath escaping his lips, his cheeks beginning to take on a pink tinge. “And?” Cor prompts, hands sliding down Nyx’s back to cup his ass.

“And I intend…” Another bite of Cor’s ear. “To spend the rest of the night…” A line traced from collarbone to jaw with Nyx’s tongue. “Taking you apart.”

A crush of his lips to Cor’s, kissing the breath from his lungs, punctuating his desire.

“All talk, no action,” Cor growls when they part.

Whatever self-control Nyx has inflicted upon himself all night dissolves entirely. He’s not a master yoga practitioner, and Cor has half a foot of height on him, but he keeps in extremely good shape for health as much as vanity, and he uses said strength to take Cor by the sway in his hips and drag him towards the bedroom. They’re so used to this dance, the steps ingrained in the memory of their bodies, that instead of stumbling they glide, their limbs entwining and parting in complex movements, an intimate ballet in a single act.

They pause against the wall, kissing noisily, messily, punctuated by soft grunts and quiet gasps. Cor gets a fist at the base of Nyx’s skull and tugs the hair there, a solid yank just the way he likes, and Nyx groans with unabashed pleasure.

“God, I want you, _je te veux, je te veux_,” Nyx repeats, as though saying it three times will conjure a spell to keep Cor in his life without vanishing, a seance to bind a living ghost.

“_Je sais_,” comes Cor’s deep, rumbled reply, speaking to him in the language of his birth and heart.

And so Nyx stops staying adrift of his feelings and falls.

Falls into bed with Cor, fluid movements divesting the clothes from their body, reverent touches updating the map of Cor’s skin, a map painstakingly drawn under the watchful passage of many moons and many stars. Falls into his eyes, basking in the regard of his attention, the gaze that’s seen right to the core of Nyx since the first time they met. Falls into his arms and finds he still fits into the perfect circle they make, a homecoming he doesn’t receive from anyone else in the universe. Falls into his body, into the warmth of his embrace, the firm muscle and sharp angles and breathtaking beauty of him, the hard crux of their hips where their desires meet. He could paint Cor a hundred million times and never capture the intimate essence of him: the arch of his back underneath Nyx as he surrenders, the soft part of his lips as he breathes out Nyx’s name, the pressure of his fingertips as he pulls Nyx flush against him, the way every noise becomes a prayer for more.

If their first reunion is frantic, the second is unhurried, almost lazy, the rhythm as predictable as the tides themselves. He kisses Cor this second time until his lips are swollen, until the only taste left on his tongue is Cor’s. It’s more difficult than Nyx imagined to invite Cor back into his own body, to lay back and surrender to a want he’s only dreamed of for years. But once they’re joined, Cor touches his forehead to Nyx’s, brushes his thumb against his cheekbone, and it feels like a benediction.

_I love you_. The words hover on Nyx’s lips, seconds from being spoken into the world.

Cor swallows the words down with a bruising kiss, and then he starts to move, and then Nyx forgets how to speak at all.

* * *

Nyx isn’t surprised when Cor ghosts him again.

He decides there will be no more pining for Cor Leonis, no more feeling sorry for himself when he threw open the door to his heart and invited this heartbreak all on his own, so he fills his schedule with work, fun, and an impromptu vacation to Europe to visit Crowe and Libertus.

Three days after he gets home, over a month after Cor spent the night with him and vanished again, Nyx’s phone rings at 7:34AM. With a loud groan, he squints at the screen, his heart lurching against his better judgment when he sees Cor’s name on the display.

Nyx grabs it from the end table and swipes up on the green icon to answer. “You’d better be dying or on your death bed to call this early,” he says into the receiver without preamble.

“Look outside.”

“Do you know what time it is?”

“Yes, I have a watch. Now look outside.”

Nyx snatches a robe from the back of his door and heads to the largest windows in his apartment, the ones in the living room that go from floor to ceiling. Sunrise peeks in through the curtains and Nyx, hesitant to blind himself with early morning light, peeks out to the neighboring building.

“You know, I’m on the 16th floor, so if you’re standing on Queen Street with a boombox to apologize, I hope it’s a loud—” Nyx loses his train of thought mid sentence.

He must be dreaming.

On the building opposite him, there’s an Immortal painting.

Two cupped hands in stark black take up almost the entire side of the brick building, their features detailed down to the folds of the knuckles and trimmed fingernails. A lifelike heart, two of its chambers painted red with the rest in black, rests in the cupped hands, brass chains draped across the scarred muscle. In a clever use of the environment, a window rests dead center of the composition, its shape mimicking a padlock that all the chains are connected to.

“Okay, so, if you know the Immortal, I’m going to be really pissed that you haven’t introduced us yet,” Nyx says.

“I _am_ the Immortal.”

“What?” Nyx asks flatly, rubbing his eyes as if to dispel the sleep induced hallucination before him.

“I am the Immortal,” Cor repeats, as though saying the words again makes them any less bizarre.

Nyx stares at the installation across the street in silence, his eyes gravitating towards the vivid red of the heart. All the times Cor disappeared. If he thought back, if he compared it with notes to when new Immortal works appeared…

“What made you decide to tell me after _seven years_, two and a half of which we dated for, until you decided secrecy was more important than our relationship?” Nyx asks, trying and failing to keep the flicker of anger from his question.

“There’s always going to be a part of me that has to stay private, Nyx. This is my art and my life. There will always be times where I need space and distance. But you’re the first and only person who knows the truth, and every part of me I can give you, including the truth… it’s yours. It’s always been yours.”

Ah, there’s the trademark Leonis flare for the dramatic: understated until it’s absolutely not.

“Is this your way of saying you want us to be official again?” Nyx croaks through the sudden, unexpected, welcome, and wholly joyful tears that clog his throat.

“Yes. Please.”

“Tell me you’re nearby and not halfway across the world, because right now I want to punch you, but in five minutes I’m pretty sure that’ll change to wanting to lock us in the bedroom for a week straight.”

“I’ll be in the lobby in five.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading. Comments and kudos are appreciated if you enjoyed! <3


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